


Piece Out

by blondsak, whumphoarder



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Choking, Crying, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Humor, Light Angst, May Parker is a Good Cook, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Precious Peter Parker, Thanksgiving, Whump, as a treat, megg safe, peter parker is decidedly Not but he tries his best, the authors can have a little crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27719843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blondsak/pseuds/blondsak, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whumphoarder/pseuds/whumphoarder
Summary: Peter carefully slices into the pie and divvies it up onto separate plates while May tops them each with a dollop of whipped cream. Happy pours coffee into cups and starts telling a story about how his three-year-old nephew once snuck downstairs to eat a few handfuls of cherry pie in the middle of the night and almost gave Happy’s sister a heart attack when she found him in bed the next morning with his face and shirt smeared with dark red liquid. The atmosphere is warm and homey, like a page right out of a Better Homes & Gardens catalogue.It’s all going quite well until Tony takes his first bite.Or, in which Peter makes a truly horrendous pie, Tony’s teasing goes a little too far, and someone may or may not cough up blood.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 100
Kudos: 270





	Piece Out

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Thanksgiving from whumpsak! <3  
> And a huge thank you to [Sally](https://sallyidss.tumblr.com/) for beta-reading!

Tony hardly gets a chance to see who answered the door before he’s enveloped in a tight hug.

“Tony! You made it!”

“Of course I did, May,” he replies with a chuckle, returning the embrace—careful not to drop the bag containing two bottles of wine and a tupperware container of green beans with almonds inside. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

As they hug, Tony looks over May’s shoulder and into the Parkers’ open-plan apartment. Happy and Rhodey are sitting in the living room; they both wave at him as they slowly stand up, still continuing their conversation. Meanwhile Peter is in the kitchen and bent over the oven dials, seemingly very focused. He doesn't so much as glance Tony’s way as May steps aside to let him in.

“I’ll take that for you,” she says, grabbing the bag from him and setting it down on the counter to pull out the contents. “Oh my, a Chateau Margaux red blend? Tony, tell me this didn’t cost–”

“I honestly have no idea. I randomly plucked it from the cellar before I left,” Tony interrupts, waving a hand. “Pepper keeps the really expensive stuff in their cases. It can’t be more than a few thousand, at most.”

 _“Just_ a few thousand, he says,” Rhodey teasingly echoes, waiting until Tony has hung his coat up before standing up to give the man a hug of his own. “Only you, Tones.”

“What can I say, honeybear?” Tony says with a grin as they both sit down at the table. “I may seem like nothing more than an old man living in a cabin these days, but I’ll always be a spoiled, billionaire trust fund baby at heart.”

“Speaking of trust fund babies,” Happy says, eyeing the closed front door, “where’s Her Royal Highness?”

“At home with the chicken pox,” Tony says with a sigh. “Pep stayed back with her. For all the complaining she does about all the SI business trips she goes on, I think she’d prefer to be dealing with a bunch of narcissistic businessmen right now than the emotional tornado that is a crabby, itchy, feverish Morgan.”

Happy winces sympathetically while May just gives a knowing nod. “Calamine,” she advises. “Lots and lots of calamine...”

“Oh we’ve been painting her with the stuff,” Tony assures as May sets a bowl of cornbread stuffing on the table. “By the time I left, she was looking like one of those French mimes.”

Rhodey laughs. “You gotta teach her how to do the box thing, man.” 

“I _tried,”_ Tony bemoans. “She glared at me. _Glared_. Have you ever been glared at by a six-year-old?”—he shudders—“It’s chilling.”

Over Happy and Rhodey’s snickers, May glances back into the kitchen where Peter still hasn’t left his position in front of the stove. “Peter, honey?” she asks. “We’re just about ready to eat. Are you coming out?”

“Yeah, just a sec!” Tony can hear the low drone of the oven and the sound of the metal rack sliding out. There’s a brief pause, then, “How do I know if it’s done? Is it supposed to jiggle?”

“A little jiggle in the middle should be fine—you just don’t want it too soupy,” May replies, moving out to the kitchen to join him. “It’ll firm up as it cools.”

Tony leans in close to Happy’s ear, the back of his hand shielding his lips from view. “They’re not talking about the turkey, are they?”

“Pie,” Happy grunts, matching Tony’s hushed tone. “Pumpkin. Homemade. Kid’s been working on it all day,” he explains, and Tony hums in acknowledgement.

“But that’s the problem,” Peter huffs out, sounding far more stressed than Tony personally feels the situation warrants. “How am I supposed to know what a _little jiggle_ is compared to a _big jiggle?”_

Both Tony and Rhodey snort in amusement, the former covering it with a few stifled coughs while the latter quickly takes a sip from his water glass. Happy just rolls his eyes.

“Peter, it’s really not rocket science,” May laughs lightly over her shoulder as she emerges from the kitchen carrying a large platter containing a gorgeous-looking roast turkey. “If it seems done, it’s probably done.”

“I _can’t tell,_ May.”

“Then give it a few more minutes,” she advises as she sets the turkey down in front of Happy, who it seems had earlier been put in charge of slicing it up for the group. “But wait for them out here—the food is getting cold.”

“Fine,” Peter relents, shutting the oven door with a sigh. He picks up the cheap plastic timer from on top of the stove and fiddles with the dial for a few seconds, then pauses and opens the oven door again just enough to peek inside. There’s a moment of what appears to be intense thought, then he gives a final nod and shuts it once more before coming out to take his seat between Tony and May—who gives his shoulder a little squeeze.

“Jiggle-crisis averted?” Tony jokes. 

“Don’t call it that...” Peter grumbles. 

As Happy starts to carve up the bird, Rhodey launches into a truly absurd story about a DC gala he recently attended, which, among other things, involved the Secretary of State, a smoked salmon crostini, some truly unfortunate timing, and a live boa constrictor. Happy and May both seem captivated, but even as Tony laughs gamely along, he can’t help but notice how distracted Peter appears.

Just as Happy starts asking everyone to pass their plates, Tony leans over. “You good, Pete?”

Peter glances over at him suspiciously. “Yeah, why?”

Tony shrugs. “You just seem a little frazzled.”

“I’m _not_ frazzled,” Peter hisses back sharply.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Oh really? The spiderling doth protest too much, methinks.”

Peter rolls his eyes, taking a roll from the bread basket Rhodey passes to him. “I’m fine. Just… ready to eat.”

“Ah, so you’re _hangry,”_ Tony quips. “Thank god. I was worried it was regular teenage hormones for a moment which—and I have to be honest here, Underoos—are frankly far more terrifying than any of your more spidery traits.” 

Right on cue, Peter’s scowl deepens, which Tony answers with a serene smile. Without giving Peter a chance to respond, he turns to the rest of the table and makes a show of humming appreciatively at the feast before them. “This smells absolutely amazing, May.”

“Yes, compliments to the chef,” Rhodey adds, having already taken a few bites of both his mashed potatoes and pile of stuffing. “Or should I say _chefs?”_ He side-eyes the kid.

Peter shakes his head in return. “I just made the pie”—he cranes his neck toward the kitchen just as May starts to pass Tony the gravy—“which actually should be almost–”

The timer dings, and Peter is out of his seat so fast that his elbow bumps May’s. Gravy slops over the edge of the boat, splashing into the cranberry sauce, which in turn splashes onto Tony’s shirt. 

“Peter!” May scolds while Tony just blinks in surprise.

Peter spins around to throw them a regretful look, but he’s already halfway across the room. “Sorry—pie!” he calls back.

As Peter disappears into the kitchen, May sighs exasperatedly and brings her fingers up to pinch the bridge of her nose. 

“Kid likes his pie,” Rhodey observes around a mouthful of roll.

A breathy laugh escapes May’s lips. “He does,” she agrees. She turns to Tony, who is dabbing the sauce off with his napkin. “I’m sorry about that. I can get you some club soda...”

Tony shakes his head, giving her an easy smile. “Don’t even worry about it, May—not a problem. Between all the calamine and soup spills, Morgan’s done _far worse_ to my wardrobe this week.”

Everyone goes back to their food, Tony watching out of the corner of his eye as the kid sets the pie down on a cooling rack on the counter. 

When Peter comes back, he glances sheepishly at the stain on Tony’s shirt. “Sorry, Mr. Stark.”

“It’s fine,” Tony dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “How’d the pie turn out?”

Peter shrugs, biting his lip. “I think it’s done baking, anyway. I guess we’ll see when it’s cooled...”

Sensing her nephew’s unease, May extends an arm to run her fingers through Peter’s hair affectionately. “I’m sure it’s perfect, sweetheart.”

Peter quickly ducks away out of her reach. _“Maaay,”_ he whines.

But there’s a smile playing on his lips as he digs back into his food, shoveling in mouthfuls at a rate that—had Tony not become accustomed to the kid’s enhanced, vigorous appetite long ago—might make him lose his own.

\----

The rest of the main meal passes by with casual conversation, punctuated occasionally with more compliments on the various dishes. It turns out May is quite a good cook—the walnut date loaf was just a one-off, apparently. 

“So, how about that pumpkin pie, Pete?” Rhodey asks as Happy and May start collecting everyone’s dirty plates to deposit into the sink.

Peter grins. “Oh sure! Coming right up!” he replies, bounding out of his chair and heading back into the kitchen. He comes back carrying the pie, a pie server tool, and a can of whipped cream just as Happy and May return to their seats.

“Look at that,” Tony says as Peter deposits the lightly browned pie down onto the table. “Not even a _little_ jiggle.”

Peter smirks, then rubs a hand awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Uh, does everyone want some?”

Pumpkin pie has never really been Tony’s favorite. On the rare occasions that he does eat pie, he usually goes for something a little fancier, like a Dutch apple, or a nice rhubarb _galette_ , but he’s certainly not about to turn the kid down after all this. “Absolutely.” He smiles, taking a dessert plate from the stack and sliding it in Peter’s direction. “Hit me.”

Peter carefully slices into the pie and divvies it up onto separate plates while May tops them each with a dollop of whipped cream. Happy pours coffee into cups and starts telling a story about how his three-year-old nephew once snuck downstairs to eat a few handfuls of cherry pie in the middle of the night and almost gave Happy’s sister a heart attack when she found him in bed the next morning with his face and shirt smeared with dark red liquid. The atmosphere is warm and homey, like a page right out of a Better Homes & Gardens catalogue.

It’s all going quite well until Tony takes his first bite.

The second the pie touches his tongue, Tony feels as though all the moisture in his mouth is sucked dry as bitterness overwhelms his senses. He coughs in surprise, quickly finding that, as bad as the flavor is, the texture is even worse. The pumpkin somehow manages to be both overbaked _and_ stringy, with tough, scratchy little bits of something Tony can’t quite identify floating around in the midst of the bitter pie filling.

It’s not the worst thing that Tony’s ever put into his mouth. But it is… _close._

Only a lifetime spent in the public eye allows him to keep his expression neutral as the kid watches him anxiously. “So… how is it?” Peter asks.

Tony swallows—which takes effort, since the little unidentifiable bits stick in his throat on the way down. He swallows again to make sure the bite stays down. “It’s uh… it’s certainly–”

He’s cut off when Happy—who has just taken a bite of his own—lets out a few small, surprised coughs into his elbow. His hand fumbles for his coffee cup and he downs a large gulp that surely must burn the inside of his mouth. Meanwhile, Rhodey discreetly brings his napkin to his lips, lowering it again a moment later with the corner folded over a suspicious lump.

Peter isn’t always the most observant individual, yet it takes but a few seconds for his face to fall as he gauges their reactions one by one. “Wait, did I… Did I do something wrong?”

May swallows the small bite she just took down. “No, no, it’s just–” She plasters on a kind smile. “It tastes very _healthy.”_

Peter frowns. He grabs a fork and takes a big bite of his own slice—his face immediately twisting up into a look of absolute disgust mixed with dawning horror. With a groan he grabs his napkin and spits the chewed chunks back into it, balling it up and looking stricken as he stares at the crumpled fabric clenched in his fist. “Oh my _god,”_ he moans. “The sugar. I forgot _the sugar.”_

“Oh, sweetheart,” May starts gently, setting down her fork. “It’s really not that–”

She’s cut off by Peter starting to laugh, shaking his head. “No, it is. It’s”—he snorts humorously—“it’s so _bad,_ May.”

Something about the way Peter says it—so plain-spoken and matter-of-fact while the rest of them had been trying so hard to hide their true feelings—has Happy, Rhodey and Tony immediately chuckling along.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” Happy says, still smiling as he takes a sip of his coffee, “but that might be the worst damn dessert I’ve ever had in my life, and my ma could hardly bake brownies from a box mix.” At May’s glare, he shrugs innocently. “What? Pete said it first.”

“You’re _sure_ it’s just the sugar?” Rhodey says now, the entire table—excluding May but more importantly, Tony thinks, _including_ Peter—erupting into more laughter. “Because I don’t know what you did to that poor squash, but I once ate a whole _lemon_ on a dare and it was less bitter than this pie.”

Peter’s shoulders are shaking now with how hard he’s laughing. “I–I don’t know!” he manages through giggles. “I think– I think when I was mashing the outside skin up, it–”

“Hold up, hold up,” Tony interrupts, suddenly starting to understand the congealed stringy bits. “You mean the _rind?_ Pete, tell me you didn’t mash the _rind._ ”

The poor kid is laughing so hard he’s barely getting any air out. “I– I’ve nev– I’ve never baked a … pumpkin before! The re– recipe just said to mash it! It didn’t say– _skin it!”_ Peter exclaims between giggles, the three men guffawing in response—Tony laughing so hard now he has to wipe tears out of his eyes.

“Okay, alright, that’s enough, guys,” May says quietly, although her own expression belies a hint of amusement. “The important thing is that Peter worked really hard on this...”

But that only makes the boy cackle even harder. “Oh god, _I did!_ ” he agrees, shoulders still shaking. “And that’s even _sadder!_ I spent, like”—he glances down at his phone screen—“I spent _seven hours_ on this and it’s inedible!”

 _“Seven hours?”_ Rhodey balks. 

Tony’s eyes go wide. “Tell me you didn’t, Pete.”

“I _did!”_ Peter’s doubled over the table now, his whole body shaking with mirth and sending the others into further peals of laughter.

“He’s been cooking the damn thing all day!” Happy giggles out, near tears himself. The situation isn’t even that funny, but the kid’s laughter is completely infectious. “I-I _asked_ if he needed help, but–”

“I...I told him– I told him I was _fine!”_ Peter spits out. “I…” He draws in a gasping breath. “I just wanted it… to be– to be like–” He breaks off for another inhale.

Tony is barely able to see through the tears blurring his vision now. “Kid, I’ve been _literally poisoned_ before,” he says, wiping at his eyes, “but I can honestly say that this–”

A sharp kick to the shin underneath the table silences Tony mid-sentence. Startled, he drops his hand from his face, only to see May glaring daggers at him. 

And that’s when Tony realizes that some kind of switch has flipped. Because suddenly, the kid’s frame is no longer racking with hysterical laughter.

It’s racking with _full-on sobs._

“...that this isn’t nearly as bad as that experience,” Tony lamely finishes. He looks on in shock as Peter continues to cry, May rubbing his back and whispering words of comfort into his ear even as she glowers menacingly at the three men.

Peter raises his head, eyes puffy. “Y-You don’t have to lie,” he says with a sniffle. “I know it’s aw-awful. I just… I really wanted to make it good for…” he trails off again, wiping at his eyes before pushing his plate of barely-touched pie to the side to make room for his elbows and resting his head on his forearms.

 _“Fix. This,”_ May mouths pointedly over Peter’s bowed frame before leaning down and trying once more to soothe him.

There’s a moment where Happy, Rhodey and Tony are collectively frozen, unsure how to proceed. 

It’s directly followed by an explosion of movement and noise.

“Add some more whipped cream to mine, will you, Hap?” Tony asks lightly, thrusting out his pie plate across the table at Happy even as Rhodey starts to dig into his piece with a voraciousness Tony hasn’t witnessed since spring break of ‘87.

“It’s really good, Pete,” Rhodey says around a mouthful of pie, barely pausing as he takes a big gulp from his still-steaming coffee mug to wash it down. 

Tony catches the briefest of grimaces as his best friend bravely goes in for another bite before Happy hands back his own plate. He picks up his fork and with a deep breath takes the plunge, scooping up a generous serving and mashing it into his mouth.

“Yeah, it jus’ needed some whi’ cream, tha’s all,” Tony says around the large mound of inexplicable bitterness, forcing it down before it can launch a full assault on his taste buds. “It’s actually better this way—not too sweet.”

Rhodey nods along enthusiastically. “Absolutely.” He shovels in another bite and gulps it down. “You can really taste the pumpkin!”

“See, kid? We love it,” Happy tosses out as he jams half of what’s left of his own slice past his lips—clearly determined to get it done and over with in only two bites. “Mmm...”

Yet by the time they all manage to clean their plates not thirty seconds later, Peter still hasn’t raised his head. There’s a few moments of nervous, twitchy silence which ends abruptly when May cants her head at what’s left of the putrid dessert. 

Happy, Rhodey and Tony give themselves only one solitary moment to bemoan their fates before they’re all rising from their seats and using their forks to scoop up seconds—Tony shooting Rhodey a death glare when the man manages to snag the tiniest of the offending wedges. 

He quickly schools his features however, taking the last and—unfortunately for him—largest piece and smothering it in another generous layer of whipped cream. Preparation over, he sits back down and starts to shovel more of the pie in.

“Mm, delicious,” he manages to garble out around his third bite, taking another sip of coffee to wash it down—feeling too nauseous by now to even bother to chew.

It’s his fatal mistake.

Something—Tony isn’t even sure _what,_ as the pie up to this point has been almost entirely slimy mush—is suddenly firmly lodged in his throat. He instinctively tries to cough but if anything that just seems to entrench the mysterious object even more. After another few fruitless attempts Tony drops his fork, letting it land on his plate with a clatter as he starts to pound on his chest. 

“Boss?” Happy asks just as Rhodey puts a hand on his shoulder and says, “Tones? You alright?”

In response Tony frantically shakes his head, eyes going wide and teary as he glances at the shocked faces seated around the table. Even Peter’s raised his head now, looking on in clear concern.

Tony tries again to breathe, only to point desperately at his throat when he finds he still cannot take in any air.

“Oh my god, he’s choking!” May cries out just as Tony launches himself up from his seat—everyone else immediately getting to their feet as well.

Instinctively Tony bends over and slams his joined fists inexpertly into his solar plexus, but nothing happens. The object stays stuck, completely blocking his airway.

It’s then that the real panic sets in. Tony continues to ram at his stomach and chest with less and less coordination. Everyone is yelling at each other or maybe even him, but Tony isn’t listening—focused only on the way his lungs have begun to positively _burn_ with the need for oxygen.

Someone gets behind him—Happy, Tony thinks distantly—and wraps their arms around his middle. They slam their own joined fists into his upper abdomen but the force isn’t nearly strong enough to eject the object—Tony feeling it rub coarsely against the sensitive skin of his inner throat. They try again but the results remain the same.

Tony feels his consciousness starting to dim. _This is it,_ he thinks as his vision begins to tunnel. _Please put something good on my tombstone, Pep, I beg you._

Tony closes his eyes, ready to embrace his end. But just as his legs buckle he feels a different pair of arms—skinnier but stronger—clasp tight around him, pushing up and into his solar plexus with enough strength that Tony idly wonders if a few of his organs haven’t been permanently shifted around.

Yet it does the trick—Tony’s thoughts immediately returning to his now very raw throat as the burst of force causes the object to finally dislodge. It launches outward from between Tony’s lips only to become a dangerous projectile. Everyone’s gazes snap away from where Tony is taking big, gulping breaths, heads whipping across the room as the weird, cylindrical-shaped object goes flying. 

Its journey comes to an abrupt end when it collides with one of the photos on the fireplace mantle. The framed picture in turn rollocks back and forth a few times only to fall to the carpet with a muted _thunk,_ the mysterious object bouncing across the floor past it and rolling under a chair. 

“Mr. Stark, are you okay?” Peter—he of the skinny, strong arms and Tony’s apparent savior—says into his ear. Tony nods his head slightly, still trying to catch his breath. But it seems Peter is demanding verbal confirmation, coming around to Tony’s side now and looking into his face worriedly. “Mr. Stark? Tony?”

“’M fine… kid,” Tony barely manages to rasp out. However the reassurance is shortly ruined when a hacking cough bubbles up from his tender throat, Tony tasting something wet and coppery on his tongue. He grabs a discarded napkin from the table and brings it to his lips to stifle the coughs. When he pulls it away again, the entire room goes still.

 _“Tony…”_ May begins, her eyes wide.

“Please tell me that’s cranberry sauce,” Happy deadpans.

Tony stares in horror at the bright red stains on the cloth. “I…” But for once in his life, he’s at a loss for words.

Peter’s face is stricken with equal parts panic and guilt. “Oh my god, did I squeeze you too hard? Did I puncture a lung or something? Was that”—his eyes dart over to the fireplace—“Was that like a _rib_ that went flying?!”

“Okay, alright, everyone just relax...” Rhodey says, holding up one hand placatingly. “It’s not _that_ much blood. He probably just scratched his throat a bit.”

“On what?” Happy demands, but Peter is already out of his chair and crawling around on the floor. A moment later, the kid’s hand shoots up in the air, fingers curled around the unidentifiable object that Tony’s just ejected—which, upon closer inspection, proves to be a sizable chunk of pumpkin stem. 

There’s a beat of dead silence.

Then all at once, Peter barks out a sharp laugh.

For a moment Tony fears that they’re in for round two. But then Peter continues to laugh—a real, genuine giggle this time, so unlike the hysterical guffaws of before—and it’s not long before Rhodey is joining in. This is followed by May, and then Happy, also losing it. 

Tony just sits there, still clutching his blood-speckled napkin, incredulous. “Seriously?” he demands over their laughter. _“That’s_ what you needed to break the tension? I nearly just _died_ at the table and this is amusing to you?”

“Well it’s hardly the first time I’ve seen you do that, Tones,” Rhodey points out. “Hell, it’s not even the first time I’ve seen you _cough up blood.”_ He lets out a humorous snort. “Remember junior year when you got alcohol poisoning at that party?”

“I fail to see how that’s relevant,” Tony grumbles. Yet even he can’t remain unmoved in the face of Peter’s joy, not to mention the utter surrealism of the situation. He smiles despite himself, then takes a generous sip from his coffee to soothe his aching throat. 

“Seriously though, are you okay, Mr. Stark?” Peter asks once the laughter has died down. 

“Besides my pride, you mean?” Tony retorts, then at Peter’s guilty look, adds more gently, “I’m fine, kid. Might stick to soft foods for the next few days, but otherwise, I’m fine.”

“No thanks to me,” Peter replies, still looking morose.

“Eh, I don’t know about that,” Rhodey pipes up from where he’s sat back down at the table, placing his napkin back in his lap. “I’m not sure Tony would have weaseled his way out of that one without your super-strength heimlich there.”

“Are you… are you actually going to finish that?” Tony asks, utterly stupefied as he watches Rhodey grab his fork—gesturing to the plate of half-eaten pie sitting directly in front of the man.

“Sure am,” Rhodey says with gleeful ease, gathering up a forkful and digging back in. Everyone looks on in astonishment as he chews and swallows, before taking another bite. After a few seconds he looks up, raising an eyebrow defensively. “What? It grows on you.”

\----

“So, you planning to tell me what happened back there?” Tony asks Peter quietly a few hours later as the teen hands him another glass to dry. The others are relaxing in the living room, playing a rousing game of Slapjack and not paying the clean-up crew any attention.

Peter doesn’t reply at first, instead grabbing a butter knife from the pile of dirty dishes and starting to scrub away at it. Tony is starting to think he might not answer at all when the kid softly says, “Ben always used to make the pies. He’d go all out—you know, pick out a pumpkin from the farmer’s market and roast it and make his own pie crust and everything. He didn’t cook very often, but he was really good at desserts.” He holds the knife under the stream of water, rinsing it clean. “Ever since he died, we’ve just had store bought pies. But this year, since you guys were coming over, I thought… I dunno. That maybe I’d give it a try.”

(Well, it’s official—Tony is the world’s biggest ass.)

“I see,” he says carefully, taking the knife from Peter and watching out of the corner of his eye as the kid plucks up a few spoons. “So you really wanted to do it right for your uncle.”

“No—well, not _just_ that,” Peter replies, handing over the utensils. He sets down the sponge he’s using on the corner of the sink, twisting to face Tony head-on. “It’s more like I suddenly realized while we were all joking that if Ben were alive, he’d have been absolutely _roasting_ me for what I did with that pie. Like, _so much_ better than you guys were doing.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “What, my quips weren’t good enough for you?”

Peter rolls his eyes. _“Please_ , Mr. Stark,” he snarks with a shake of his head, turning back to the sink and plucking his sponge up again. “You’re like, practically the king of dad jokes these days.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

It’s not until a few minutes later—once Tony has finished putting the dishes back in the cupboard and Peter is draining the sink—that the kid adds, “The whole situation just—it made me remember how much I still miss him sometimes, I guess.” There’s a beat before he adds, “And I really did spend seven hours making the stupid thing, so that didn’t help.”

“I get it, kid,” Tony replies. “Holidays have a way of making me miss my parents too, even now. No shame in that.”

Peter gives him a grateful smile, then leans in for a side hug. “Thanks. And—Happy Thanksgiving.”

Tony puts his arm around Peter’s shoulders, giving the kid a tight squeeze. “Happy Thanksgiving, Pete,” he murmurs into the kid’s hair before pulling away.

With a sniff, he folds up the kitchen towel he’d been using and hangs it over the faucet neck before turning back to Peter with a playful smirk. “Now, while I begrudgingly accept we’re not in your uncle’s league, I bet between Hap, Rhodey and myself we can do a proper roasting, if it would make you feel better. Or”—Tony raises an eyebrow mischievously—” _stemming_ from what happened earlier, I’m sure I can come up with a few good dad jokes, too.”

He grins when Peter lets out a long, tortured groan. “That was so _so_ bad, Mr. Stark.”

“Morgan would have found it hilarious,” he points out.

“Wow. You can make a six year-old laugh. Congratulations,” Peter deadpans.

“What can I say? It’s a gift.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come and hang out on tumblr if you'd like! [blondsak](https://blondsak.tumblr.com/) & [whumphoarder](https://whumphoarder.tumblr.com/)


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